Remnants of a forgotten winter
by 3.14rate
Summary: Eons passed as he fell from the edge of Bifröst and more so as he found himself trapped within a forest of endless winter. An icy grave fitting for a fallen king. A realm abandoned and long forgotten by the elder gods themselves. A realm of aeviternal winter. A tale of a god's struggle to survive in a land of eternal frost, and his destiny to become king.
1. 1) Falling

A/n: Falling off the Bifröst post first Thor movie, Loki found himself descending through the void, the space between realms. For the longest of times he fell... and fell he did. Till he found himself in a realm of the lowest depths, a realm long abandoned and forgotten by the gods of today.

A tale, of the dangers he would face in a land of eternal snow, of unending frost. Where tall trees cover the starless skies, where danger lurks in every corner. Of one god's struggle to stay alive in a world without warmth... and his destiny to become king.

For existing characters such as Thor / the avengers, I might choose to bring them into the story if I'm inspired to write more. For now, it's a standalone tale.

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><p><span><strong>Remnants of a forgotten winter.<strong>

_I could have done it father, I could have done it. For you, for all of us!_

_Loki!_

He was falling, and for as long as he remembered, he fell.

It was a strange form of unconsciousness he had found himself in, dark yet aware of his surroundings, almost like as if he was sinking deeper and deeper into a sea of impenetrable depths, a void of which even he cannot escape from.

Realms passed he fell, his body lost to the eons, to the nothingness, the emptiness between worlds. His mind however, was not spared rest. It could be said that one learns most about themselves when fear and helplessness finally overtakes their hubris, his once immutable, indivisible self, just a fragile facade, stripped and broken by fear. Comforting illusions gone, only what laid beneath remained.

The bitterness, the malevolence he once felt, seemed nothing but an eternity ago. Gone were his animosity, his resentment. Instead an air of lassitude hovered above what was left of him, placid, somehow serene.

He saw worlds die and kings rise he fell, some redolent to the life he once had, an aeviternity ago. He fell, till the realms could no longer be felt, till barren desolate space was all that was left. And fell he continued, till the very end of existence and then fell, he no longer did.

His landing was not like one would expect, it defied the force and impact physics would equate, instead a form of softness enveloped him, like a cushion of sorts as he sank into it's silken yet frigged embrace. And upon Loki's redivivus, all he saw was white.

It was nothing like his true home of Jotunheim, home of frost giants and frozen rigid ice, instead the softness coruscated brilliantly in his palm as they slipped between his fingers. It wasn't ice, but of snow, a purely niveous shade of white.

And for as long as he had fell, Loki walked. And for as long as he had walked, there was nothing, but white.

Snow crunched as he eventually crumbled to his knees, broken as his fists dug into the brittle white. Looking up into the darkened sky, he spoke for the first time since he had fell from Asgard. Words that turned into screams, cries as he begged to be put out of his misery, sobs as glacial wind torn through his battered body, one that simply cannot die.

Silence was all that he was granted, from a sky voided of everything but darkness. He seemed to have fallen so deeply, stars no longer provided illumination, yet the realm was still radiantly lit, as if by the lambent snow itself.

_I am a king._

A mantra, the one thing that seemed to fight back against his growing despair, as he looked at the growing myriad of trees ahead of him, a contrast to the endless plains of white. The first he had saw in a very long time. They stood almost as tall as the grandest citadels in Asgard, taller than any other tree he had seen. Their leaves were ghastly white like everything else in this damned realm and they were as many as his eyes could see.

An entire forest of hauntingly beautiful trees.

Almost like a fleeting hallucination, he heard it. Barely above a whisper, a sussurant stir that lasted seconds, coming from deep within the forest.

He ran, straight towards it's source, no longer with the care of whether it was a friend of foe, because it might just mean that he is not alone.

And as that thought crossed his mind, he stopped.

_Not alone._

Suddenly the snow seemed to have lost it's glow, it's dimming glare weakening as he found himself with towering trees in all directions, his footprints already  
>covered with another layer of snow. His heart thumped painfully in his chest, from both the adrenaline and fear.<p>

_Not alone._

Another whisper... he saw. His eyes widening as he instinctively reached for a weapon that had not been there for almost another eternity.

_Not. Alone._

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><p><em>Fin.<em>


	2. 2) Athanasia

**Chapter 2:**

_Years later..._

He no longer knew of time spent in this caliginous forest, the man lost sight of both entrances and the empty skies. He could only push on forward, acquiesced in the fact that it was the only path left in this stark and hellish realm. It was ironic, considering Loki had both been to Niflheim and Hel itself, both which now seemed almost comfortably pleasant compared to where he was cursed to roam.

He had lost count of winters passed, an unremarkable feat in a realm of aeonian frost. There were seasons, as he had found out. The differences in days of painful chills and agonizing nights when he almost tore off his own skin in order to escape the cold. Thousands of cycles must have passed as he traversed the unending land alone, he felt himself growing older over time, weaker.

He barely looked the man he once was, the proud god he once stood as. Pale streaks of whitened hair ran amidst darkened ones, long and unshaven. His body was battered by the weather, pummeled into tired submission. He could not remember the last time he had stopped to rest, or to have found shelter.

It wasn't his perpetuity of immortality that endured the unrelenting frost, or the settling hunger. He had found a type of fruit that existed in this otherwise desolate world, circular in the shape of pearls, in the same shade of color as everything else.

Its skin was firm, yet easily peeled, the insides were piquant to say the least. The fruit looked succulent, juicy. It had a sort of pleasant, savory aroma, yet never once was he granted reprieve in this unforgiving world. Even food sought to torment him. Whenever a part of him came in contact with it's contents, be it his fingers of his lips, the piece of fruit would melt, turning itself into nothing but a tasteless, metallic liquid. Still, he drank from it, it kept him alive, just barely so.

He thought of his dwellings back on Asgardian soil, the intricately sewn canopy ceiling, the elegantly furnished entirety of his personal homestead, the great wooden bed he missed so much, one that could fit at least a dozen different maidens, perhaps even the giants of Jotunheim. He remembered the beautifully decorated walls, hung richly with woven tapestry, images of war and and victories, past deeds by the gods before them. Crafted only by an expert artisan, perhaps the best in all of nine realms. Commissioned by Odin to motivate his children towards a life of glory. Inspiring? Not so much for him as for his brother. But dazzlingly exquisite? Most definitely so.

The man had never felt so drained, yet he carried on, marveled by his own strength. The gloomy path ahead kept visibility limited, aided by the storm that raged unceasingly above the towering trees. It sounded louder, closer than all of the times he had encountered it, an unnatural brewing, one he wished to avoid at all cost.

The growing shadows kept him alert, glancing at the darkness ahead, he had to blink away snow that had gathered at the edge of his eyes, just so he could see a few meters ahead of himself. He could feel his heart starting to palpitate, breaking the steady rhythm erratically. The long gash across his left shoulder began to throb, the familiar twinge of pain almost a warning.

He saw two darting glimpses in the shadows ahead, and despite his waning strength, doubled his pace. His boots dug deep into the icy layers beneath as he headed for thicker trees, a better option compared to staying exposed.

His shoulder started to ache again, with an almost burning affliction, a reminder of his first encounter with... them.

The shadows stretched... and he barely sensed the approaching figure just as it swiped at him from behind, his body quickly dropping to the ground, rolling to a safe distance away from his assailant. He grunted at the blistering sensation across his back, where he was grazed just seconds before. The three beings circled him, stepping into the snow's glow just as he pulled himself back up to his feet.

Each standing almost as tall as an Asgardian warrior, the grotesque beings looked almost humanoid, with proper anatomy and four sizable limbs. The main differences being their pale, almost translucent skin and the lack of any visible muscles across their entire frame. The creatures looked like as if someone threw a layer of skin over a pile of thick, undead bones, or less optimistically, a corpse completely rotten away. The have dark empty sockets for eyes, gaping holes in where there should be teeth.

He had tried to reason with them, on more than one occasion. But it was like as if they did not understand what he was trying to convey, or even cared to communicate at all. They simply attacked within him trespassing the proximity of where they laid hidden, buried under snow, unavoidable.

He ducked beneath the reaching fingers of the first creature, low enough to firmly grasp its bony legs, lifting the monster and sending it sprawling to the ground on it's own momentum. Despite their figure, they were astoundingly light, no doubt because of the lack of muscles. He quickly took advantage of the momentum change, leaping after the fallen creature, his knee planting firmly onto its chest, pining the shrieking creature down against the ground.

Due to the lack of teeth, their cries were highly pitched and painful to his ears. A moment quickly passed before his hands wrapped around the fallen being's skull, and twisting it as hard as he could.

If only Thor could see him now. Loki, the god of illusions and tricks, resorted to using his own fists.

Blood splattered across the whitened canvass of snow as he crashed into the other, his robe torn from where he was struck, yet Loki not cared. In many ways, he welcomed the arrival of aggressors, they were no longer just the perils, the menace of this forest he was trapped in, but they were now also the brunt of all his frustration, his madness. Foreign, pale blood shot across his chest, coating his knuckles.

He could hear the screams of a crippled man, and only when his fists stopped did he realize it came from himself.

The final shriek lasted barely a second, just enough for the crack of the creature's neck to resonate once throughout their now empty surroundings. Loki fell to his knees, blood splattering onto the ground below him, seeping through the ice as the dead carcasses began to melt, turning into the very snow he stood on.

He looked up, though he was sure none no longer looked.

_Have I not been punished enough?!_

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><p><em>Fin<em>

_A/N: Do leave a review if you enjoyed!_


	3. 3) Revenant

**Chapter 3: Revenant**

Broken nails, bloodied fingers.

Trivial compared to what he had endured. It could have been decades passed, but he no longer kept count. He hurdled in a tiny condensed space, cold, but sheltered from the harsh conditions that existed outside. He had dug a tiny space into the trunk of a nearby tree, one no different than the countless others he passed.

The bark itself was reminiscence of wood found in both Midgard and Asgardian soil, it could be broken and peeled, but it was not something meant for barren hands. For days he pulled at the niveous bark, till blood mixed with white as it splatted across the the icy grounds, his very own. Layers after layers he had dug, till a tiny space existed, one small enough for him to crawl into.

And for the first time since he had set foot on this hellish realm, he found rest. He stayed, for the longest time, and for the longest of time, he laid in that tiny hole. A place seemingly meant for him to crawl into and die, a tomb dug by his own two hands. He slept, though he no longer dreamt. Yet sometimes he found himself in reverie, filled with thoughts of a better place, warmer.

He grew weaker, but everything else was left unchanged. Snow continued to fall and with it, all traces of his existence, wiped cleanly away, like a new piece of canvas, like as if he had never existed at all. It wasn't long before his food supply was exhausted, save one last piece of the cursed berry, one that lingered by the edges of his fingertips, one which he made no effort to ingest. He was weary, tired... he no longer wanted to endure his suffering. He could not help but to feel a hinge of regret, of pity, for his legacy to come to an end this very way, dying in a hole, his own grave. It felt distant, a tiny sensation at the back of his mind, the feeling of the fruit slipping from his grasp, it fell, and his eyes followed.

It barely parted the snow as it came to a stop on an icy cushion, but it was then the man noticed it was not alone. A pair of boots, freshly polished. It felt as though pins were inserted into his eyes, the lashes that were frozen shut slowly began to break as he slowly widened his gaze. He looked up, his body screaming in anguish at his movements, the flow of blood, the moving of his limbs.

He had been in that one fetal position for longer than one would think. He had been stilled for too long. Slowly, his gaze fell upon legs, a body, a face. Another man stood in front of him, clad in overflowing robes of green, hair silken and as dark as the night skies itself. An air of confidence stood over him, more arrogance than not.

"Did you really crawl into a hole to die?"

He inhaled sharply, his lungs constricted painfully. A familiar voice. His very own.

He studied the man in front of him, it was a perfect mirror of himself, impossibly accurate. But a younger one, a god still not lost to this merciless realm, a young man, foolish like he once was.

"Pathetic, utterly worthless."

Even his hallucinations sought to mock him.

"Get up you worm. You are a king, not a peasant nor dog."

He could barely muster a whisper, his lips cracked and bled with each syllable, his dried throat sending heaves of dry coughs, "given... up." He was already prepared to die, and when his will to survive no longer existed, gone too was his body's reason to survive.

"Given up? The man laughed without remorse, "Loki, the rightful king of all realms, given up because of a little cold?" His voice was filled with bitterness, his resentment clearly visible, Loki knew, it was exactly like how he himself would phrase it.

He knew it was but an illusion, an image conjured up by his mind, yet somehow a tiny part inside of him feared the unknown, of the horrible potential he had yet to witness, of what this realm could do. And even though he knew it was all in his head, he still felt the heated grasp of his younger self, the man's fingers curling around his torn fabrics, gripping at the edges of his collar.

And suddenly, he was pulled upright. He could feel a tightening pressure around his neck, suffocatingly. He grasped at the air in front of him, nothing. He tried to scream, but only a desperate wheeze could be heard. He felt the edges of his toes dangle against the surface of the snow, it felt as though he was being lifted into the air.

And as soon as it was felt, it was gone. He felt himself crashing back down onto the softened ground, his knees digging into the snow as he fell onto fours. He coughed, trying to replenish the intake of oxygen he was forcefully derived of.

"Mongrel. Weak. Inadequate."

"Your brother would have lasted longer than you."

"No."

He hissed, "no." Excruciatingly, Loki brought himself back up to his feet, he stared down his aggressor, "he... would fall."

"My entire life... I have walked alone, I am dependent on no one but myself. I have brokered victories not won by mere conventional feats of strength, victories that were only achievable through the paths of darkness itself... one that required full abandonment of whatever righteousness they held. There are things that are to be done, that Thor himself would never do. Things that I... would not even bat an eyelid before acting upon."

_From a guard tower newly erected near the outskirts of Niffleheim, Loki observed the revelry near the tents below. Blazing fires, the smell of roasted meat, of fresh blood and metal rose to his dwellings above. Guttural chants came from below, cheers, singing, music. The men were without a doubt enjoying themselves, even within such proximity to Niffleheim itself. _

_They had snuck in nights before, hoping to locate an ancient artifact stored in the lowest levels of Niffleheim by an elder god, one that would give it's possessor demonic strength beyond comprehension. A weapon sorely needed to fend off a particularly formidable Jotunheim invasion, one that would likely succeed due to the Allfather's absence, his sleep of life._

_Thor himself stood at the center of the celebration, siting a top a gigantic box that held their prize, he pranced around the weapon like as if it was nothing, a gigantic chalice of wine in one hand, a half eaten slab of meat in the other, oblivious to the events that had unfolded._

_The god of thunder was by no means dumb, but certainly reckless and impulsive, his impetuous actions a constant setback to quests requiring a much more... delicate nature. _

_They had followed his lead, right into the mouth of Niffleheim itself, where Thor sought the challenge of war, of the taste of blood more than their actual task at hand. _

_A million souls. Or so he was told, the price of retrieving their highly sought after weapon. A ritual that would involve the corruption of a million pure souls, sending them straight into Niffleheim in order for them to lift the weapon out of it's unbreakable enchantments. _

_For hours they stood in that vast room, fending off the thousands of helldogs sent after them, as men fell all around them, they contemplated in their choices, of the millions of, "what if's". And for hours more they fought, till blood ran the cabin floor red, till the armors of the brave Asgardian warriors turned a crimson shade. But even gods have limits, and it wasn't long before they could fight no longer. _

_They retreated, leaving the weapon still magically sealed upon it's altar, they retreated, leaving their weapons as they carried the injured on their shoulders. But it wasn't just the weapons that were left behind, a carefully cloaked Loki, as he approached the altar. His fingers danced against the outline of the weapon, his palm grazing across it's smooth features. He could fear the screams of trapped souls as he lifted the object, and without as much a thought other than how he would lie to Thor about it's retrieval, he further condemned a million souls to eternal damnation._

"I have always been in the darkness," he yelled with a croaked voice, "the very idea of it terrifies Thor, the suffocating darkness, tunneling into every living orifice, the intoxicating blackness, the very concept that he is afraid of, is the very path I belong."

"So don't make a mockery of me, telling me Thor would fare better than I have."

"So why." A wryly smile as the younger Loki responded in question towards the older, "are you waiting for, courting death."

"Walk. Survive, like you always had."

And then, he was gone, only the berry remained in Loki's palm. A valuable lesson from an unseen benefactor, or perhaps simply his deteriorating, ravingly lunatic mind. He would never know. Loki stood alone, looking back towards the hole which had sheltered him from so many torturous nights, and like the many winters he had endured, he again began to walk, forward into the darkness

A single step at a time, just like how he was meant to be.

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><p><em>fin<em>

_ Armand: I'm glad you're glad. I did consider many of those ideas, though if you really do want to know the direction of the the story I'm heading, do pm me (or leave another review) with your fanfiction account, in consideration of the readers that would prefer not to be spoilered along the way._

_ wbss21: Thank you, for the kind words, and thank you, for reading my story._


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